Happenstance
by Kawaii Snowdrop
Summary: She samples all the elaborate petit fours and talks medicine with stuffy palace patrons. Even at the side of the ballroom, watching the swirling mass of spinning vivid skirts is like seeing a precise and finely crafted kaleidoscope. Everything is perfect. Shirayuki is bored. (Dance AU)


She gives her sparkling glass to Obi so she can smooth down her silk dress once more. It's powder blue with fine lace detailing and she's glad it was available in the rental shop. The glass contains fine champagne from a distant country, but she's barely tasted it in the hour it's been in her grasp. Due to her unfortunate intolerant nature with alcohol she treats the drink as an accessory rather than a beverage. Instead she samples all the elaborate petit fours and talks medicine with stuffy palace patrons. Even at the side of the ballroom, watching the swirling mass of spinning vivid skirts is like seeing a precise and finely crafted kaleidoscope. Everything is perfect. Shirayuki is bored.

She does not know why her name was pulled out in the nationwide citizens' competition for two tickets to the second prince's coming of age ball. To some people it's a big deal, and admittedly she too was excited until she realised that balls are utterly dire if you aren't there to find a future partner because everyone assumes that you are.

"-cuse me, pardon...oh hey, please and thank you would you have the honour - never mind he's coming, this way!"

A hand grabs hers and she jumps out of her skin, stumbling a few steps and almost treading on her skirt - a close one since she can't afford the repairs if it rips. In her surprise she doesn't protest the man - wait, he's no older than her, so a boy - steering her away. She sends a panicked glance towards Obi but he seems strangely complacent about the blatant kidnapping, jaw dropped and grip loose on the stem of her champagne glass. Traitor.

A tug on her wrist till it's above her head and she's forcibly spun around in tandem with the rest of the couples on the dance floor. The boy weaves them between the satin covered elbows with practiced steps, fingers now curled around her waist as well as her hand. Shirayuki flounders along behind him, staring mortified at her clumsy demeanour - she can't dance, she's a country girl, why is she being forced into this?

"I'm really sorry about this," a voice floats above her head, "but Mitsuhide was going to make me talk to Lord Shipley again and the last time I did he wouldn't let me go for over an hour."

This, Shirayuki unfortunately understands very well; remembering the droning voices of noble men who weren't even certified herbalists trying to lecture her on their opinions of, well, anything.

"If you're going to go to the trouble to steal me away in the middle of the conversation, you might as well introduce yourself," she ends up saying reproachfully, displeased with the current, and most embarrassing situation.

The boy laughs, and she's twirled again.

"My name?" He sounds amused, like she should know better. Surely, he can tell though, from the loose weave cheap fabric, scratchy lace and unrefined movements she's hesitant to call dancing that she's not actually noble born? That the name of each titled individual and who married so-and-so's second cousin wasn't drilled into her head as part of her education? She spent her childhood meticulously copying illustrations of plants from library books and wandering the woodlands nearby.

"You can call me Zen."

Something inside freezes at the familiar name with its implication and she loses her footing on the polished marble floor, balance forgotten. Zen grabs her around the ribs before she can fall and heaves her above his head, spinning them both in his own variation of the dance. Shirayuki panics, hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders - and oh gosh, his eyes are _beautiful_.

They're a deep blue she's only seen on official portraits that circulate the kingdoms' small towns every few years. She'd thought they were exaggerated, that nobody could possess eyes the exact colour of the ocean when she visited it once with both her parents - and bring so thoroughly back the scent of salt in the air and the warmth of the sun gently scalding her skin. Hair as fair as the untouched snow at dawn frames his somewhat surprised expression. Her cheeks burn, and she stops her staring as he smoothly drops her back on safe ground.

She's never felt more humiliated.

"Your Highness," she implores as he swiftly leads her back into the pace of the surrounding dance, "I beg your pardon for my lack of formality and inadequate dancing skills."

"You have..." Prince Zen seems equally hesitant, "most unique features, I have never seen hair that vibrant."

"I hear that a lot," she sighs, letting the conversation drift into awkward silence. She possesses a love-hate relationship with her hair; though she had been proud of the coiled bun and the nape of her neck that had taken two hours. She's sure her face matches the shade perfectly by now.

"Please," Prince Zen's hand tightens on hers, "the apology should be mine, for I forced you to dance even though you weren't comfortable, and I have yet to ask your name."

His sudden stiff phrasing hurts more than it ought to, she thinks as the partners around them sweep past in their fanciful glory. She had just been on the verge of deciding that she was enjoying this impromptu dance before he dropped the bombshell of his identity, and she wanted to crawl back to the woods and bury herself.

"It's Shirayuki, Sir," she grits out, feeling smaller than a speck of dirt.

"That's beautiful," Prince Zen says, and he sounds so genuine that she risks another glance at his eyes that smile down at her.

"You shouldn't be so afraid you know," and thank goodness, if he's talking colloquially again to her she might not have ruined this situation beyond repair, "because if this is your first formal partner dance then you're doing great."

They readjust their grips and continue to waltz.

"How can you tell?" It slips out before she can think of her words, her feet are starting to hurt in the cramped slippers she's wearing.

A spinning lift again and she catches sight of a sly smirk.

"I picked your name out of the competition," and brilliant, her old friend mortification is back again.

The dance ends with a long, wavering violin note, but Prince Zen doesn't drop her hands like hot coals like she thought he would.

"I'll escort you back to your companion," he says, and, taking her gently by the arm does exactly that. Obi is where she left him, still gobsmacked and with champagne almost spilling out of the glasses.

"Prince Zen," she tells him, because it needs to be said, "it was an honour to meet you, and happy birthday."

He grasps her hand once more and presses a lingering kiss to the back of the knuckles, smiling against her skin, "the pleasure was all mine, but I'm sure we'll meet again soon enough."

And with a secretive, but charismatic - he has dimples, how did she not notice the dimples before? - smirk he disappears back into the group of mingling nobility.

She and Obi stand together in silence for a very long time.


End file.
